Father George now began his real work. Onto his back went the shield, into the baldric went the mace, and out of a horse pack came bandages, ointments, needle and thread. He scurried around the victims. One rider was dead and another was close to it.
“May I pray over her?” he asked Sanjeev. “I know that your religion is not that same as mine, but I am sure my god will look after anyone who fights evil, regardless of who they pray to, and I am also sure that your gods are not known to be very jealous of the work of others.”
“If it will help her live, pray on,” said Sanjeev.
Father George stitched and bandaged the rider then, asking for light, which Rani produced, making it as light as if it were day over a small area from an amulet around her neck. Once she had done this he drew a design around the seriously wounded soldier in the dirt. Rani had not seen much in the way of clerical miracles close up, but the design looked very similar to some of the magical ones. On top of the woman he laid his shield, he took a censer from his pack and lit the incense in it. The fragrant smells lit the air. He asked Rani to stand beside the pentagram and slowly swing the censer around to distribute the fragrance. He then removed an asperser from his pack and filled it with water. Getting Indira to hold a book open so that he could read from it he began praying and using the asperser to sprinkle drops of water on the scene and all that were in it as he said his prayer, in what those who could speak it said was Latin. When Father George had finished and the rider was brought out of the pentagram her bleeding had stopped and she was at least breathing easier.
“We should not waste the circle,” the Father said. “Sanjeev, you are next.” Sanjeev had also taken a lot of damage as he had tried to be everywhere protecting his patrol. He received similar treatment, as did another trooper. None had major effects, but their wounds stopped bleeding and they both felt better. Father George was plainly exhausted.
“You idiot,” said Rani quietly to him. “You used up more than your mana didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said the Father.
“You put yourself at risk,” said Rani softly to him. “Only the first was truly essential and, thanks to you, she is now out of danger.”
“No,” was the reply, “what if there is a second attack? You are out of magic for the night, as is Amin, and we would need to repel them physically. Everyone needs to be as well as they can be.”
“True,” said Rani “but you are now weak and, while I have very little left in myself, I still have wands.” She went to her pack and removed six more wands, which she replaced in her arm sheaths and in the pockets of her jacket. She thought a bit and then removed four more and returned to Father George. “You are right though, we do need more firepower. In case you are also right about a second attack it is best if you take two of these. Point the end with the arrow carved in it at a target and think of fire. I am a battle mage and I made these wands myself. You will find them easy to use.” She then went to Amin and just handed him the other two. He was only a junior battle mage, but he knew how to use a wand.
The body of the dead cavalryman was put aside and covered for the next day and those off watch retired to get what sleep they could.
Father George’s fears proved groundless and, after eating and packing they headed towards the river and the ford, taking the body with them. Rani commented to Father George on the sheer scale of the magic required to produce such an army of undead.
“As I described in my stories, this area is rich with remains,” explained Father George. “Perhaps someone has been creating them slowly and storing them for when they were wanted. They do not need feeding and they could be kept against need in a ruin or a cave. I know that this implies a lot of forethought on someone’s part, but they could have made them for another purpose and just used them casually as the weapon that they had ready to hand against us.”
“True,” said Rani, “but who would do it and why?”
“Perhaps,” replied the Father, “the same entity that makes caravans just vanish as if into thin air. You told the Metropolitan that you had another reason to be here. Perhaps that is connected to this as well. Is your reason to be here likely to make powerful enemies for you?”
“Possibly,” said Rani shaking her head. “I just don’t know.” Within herself, Rani knew that she was terrified by this idea.
Eventually they came out of the forest and could see the river. Sanjeev moved them all to the shore a bit downstream of the ford and the soldiers began to drop timber they had carried with them and to gather more. A bier was built and the man’s body was placed on top. No Hindu priests were available for the proper prayers to be said. The patrol stood silent while Rani used some magic to set the bier burning fiercely. Father George said some prayers under his breath as they all stood and watched the body being consumed. Once this was done and the fire reduced to embers the remaining ashes of timber and person were pushed into the sacred river to return downstream to Haven. After this was done all of the Hindus washed themselves in the stream and, still wet, rode up to the ford to cross into Evilhalt.
Part 3
Chapter XIX
As he sat at his working at his bench in the front of his father’s shop Stefan finally realised that he wanted more from life than this. He had only recently become a journeyman leatherworker, although he was still working under his father and, it seemed, was likely to remain so. He knew that he was a solid and competent worker but his younger brother, younger than he by several years, was already better at the trade than Stefan was and their father would understandably allow him to inherit both the business and the house. The idea of remaining single in the family home and working under the direction of his younger brother did not appeal to him at all. It would mean remaining unmarried, forever the failure of the family, taking part in raising his brother’s children as if they were his own. Others did it, but it was not what he wanted.
There was the rich smell of leather and oils, the happy sounds of the village around him, but he felt somehow incomplete. He mulled over the options as he worked. He could always go elsewhere seeking somewhere that needed his skills as a craftsman. There were many hamlets and assarts, even just around Evilhalt, who would love to have him. However, he realised that there was also another choice.
He liked it here in his own village and he had always paid more attention to his militia duties than to his craft, perhaps this was the reason he was not better at his trade. Paying attention to the militia was easy to do in Evilhalt, which had always demanded that everyone who was physically capable devote at least one day each week to either training or working as a guard. The town only had a few permanent cadres, but it could field a sizeable and formidable force to protect the assarts around it very quickly.
The people of the town had learnt, over the centuries, that this preparedness was a good idea, so good that they had not forgotten it, even during The Burning. They had not been seriously attacked for some time, but they had never relaxed their vigilance. He certainly wasn’t the best soldier in the town, but he was one of the best of his age cohort and he was good at training and teaching and had a grasp of what to do with people in the field. Stefan expected to be made a sergeant soon and to be given a squad of new recruits to train. Wouldn’t it be fun if his younger brother were one of them? Amos would not like that a bit. Maybe he should apply to join the cadres and stay here or he could even become a caravan guard and see home again only when he passed through it on his travels.
He finished up the stitching in the bridle he was working on, ran the smooth leather through his hands and then put it aside with a sigh, neatly racking his tools as he did so. Oh well, for now another working day was over.
Stefan went out of the rear of the workshop, past his father still working away, to the kitchen. Dinner smelt good, but it would not be ready for some time. Today had been washing day, so everything else was delayed. He told his mother that he was going to the inn and went down the road. Let’s see if there is anything different, a
nything to break me out of the trap I am in, he thought.
Stefan entered the cool, dim room. Looking around he saw familiar faces on every side. Seeing some of his watch at a bench near the empty stage he went over and joined them, grabbing a drink on the way. No, it seemed that the evening was going to follow the familiar path of many others. He was just starting on his second ale when the familiar routine was broken.
A girl came around the bar and headed to the stage. Behind her was Howard, one of the stable hands. He was carrying a small drum that he sometimes played at dances. The girl was dressed in, well, not much really. She wore loose and translucent baggy trousers that hinted at her having shapely legs and, on her top, a small embroidered silk bodice with no shirt worn under it that did a lot more than hint. He knew that she was from the Caliphate from the veil that she wore although he had always thought that their women wore a lot more in the way of clothes. However he had never seen one of their women before and so had nothing to judge by. He wondered if they were all as stunning to look at as this one. Her body was superb and athletic and what you could see of her face was also beautiful.
She carried a handful of unsheathed knives and, as she walked to the stage, she started juggling them to gain attention—not that she needed to—every eye, at least those of the males, was already upon her. She kept up the juggling for a while, doing some tricks, as if juggling five sharp blades was not impressive enough. She had Howard throw her apples. She impaled them with knives as they came and kept juggling, eating bits from them as she went. Eventually she put them all down to the applause of hands and money. She bowed and then started to sing. She sung in Dwarven: songs of mining, of lost Dwarvenholme and of the mountains. She sang in Hindi: songs of jungles and love and travel. She also sung in Khitan and Faen. Stefan only recognised a few words of those, but he could work out that the Khitan ones were of love, the plains and horses, while the Faen were of raiding and adventure and of the great beasts of the Swamp.
Howard kept up a steady rhythm behind her, trying to match his drumming to her singing and the finger she waved in his direction. Gradually the inn was filling with far more than the usual number of patrons. She took a break introducing herself as Ayesha and explaining that she was going to be staying in town for some time. It seemed like everyone wanted to buy her a drink. She declined politely and poured herself some water. Stefan grinned. She was a smart girl; people had to show their appreciation with money. Soon it began to tinkle down onto the area in front of her, coins sometimes rolling across the floor to be thrown back by spectators.
After a break Howard began to play again, a peculiar and insistent rhythm while Ayesha just stood there looking at him and making sure he had it right. Then she turned to the audience and began to move, at first it was just her hips, her belt jingling, then the rest of her body and her arms. Her body was moving in ways that he didn’t know a body could move. Her hips seemed to have a life of their own, setting up a rhythm much faster than the rest of her torso and hands. The small metal objects that she held in her hands, which tinkled loudly like little bells, punctuated the drumming. She undulated her stomach and made the muscles move in ways that he had not known stomach muscles could move and that, combined with her swaying breasts and rapidly moving hips, had an effect that was decidedly erotic in nature.
Eventually Stefan ducked home to eat, only to discover, on returning, that he had to work his way back to where he had been and squeeze in as an extra person, to get onto the same bench. The night turned out very different to the way it had started. Stefan went home late. More than any of the other travellers that had come through town, this girl with her songs and dancing, seemed to blow a breeze through Stefan’s life—a wind of change.
The next night Stefan went back to the inn. He did the same on the third night as well. That night the girl asked everyone to please go outside to the street. Most people wandered outside, bemused and wondering where she had gone, as she was not with them. Soon Howard started a drumming from above their heads. Looking up some noticed that there was a rope stretched across the intersection of streets that the inn was on and pointed it out to the others.
Ayesha appeared at the window that the rope emerged from and, if anyone had not noticed the rope, seemed to stand on the air as if she were a mage. She walked above their heads carrying a pole as calmly as if she were standing on the street. She reached the other side and turned, walking back across. This time she returned the pole into the room, handing it to one of the serving girls through the window, and started out again without it. She moved more slowly now and had her hands held out from her sides. Her eyes were on the rope ahead. When she had reached the centre of the street she stopped and bent backwards. She bent over so far that her hands touched the rope and then grabbed hold of it. Now she slowly unbent, but her feet were in the air, rather than her hands, which instead were held wide apart on the rope.
Once erect she stayed stationary for a while. Her hands were grasping the rope while her feet pointed to the moons. All of a sudden her feet started falling and the crowd gasped, but her hands stayed on the rope and she swung around it, letting go of it only on the upswing. The crowd gasped again, but this time she landed with her feet on the rope. It swayed, and so did she, but she kept her feet, waiting and concentrating on balance until the rope stilled. Once it had done so she slowly walked off to the window and acknowledged the crowd’s applause from there with a small bow.
That night Stefan heard a rumour that she had been down at the town’s archery butts practising. She used a bow like those of the Khitan and could shoot as well as anyone there. So she was not just decorative and entertaining. She proved you could be more than one thing. He had to meet her and talk with her. He was comfortable with the way that he was, he was just not happy. He acknowledged to himself that he might need her example of escape from her old life to provide him with the spur to do the same with his life.
Chapter XX
Within a week Ayesha found herself settling into a comfortable niche in the town. She was happy with herself; her entertainment was a huge success and her courtesy and complements to all stood her in good stead. While she never made as much as she did on her first few nights, she was sure that the town would keep liking what she did and would provide her with a very good living. Caravans coming through would boost that sometimes. It appeared to have been quite a while since the town had a good permanent bard based there and they liked having one again. Ayesha could even learn new songs from them and from the travellers that passed through.
She started joining in the activities of the town during the day, often practicing with her bow and sometimes with her mace and parrying dagger. She made sure she was easy to accept. To her great surprise the black-robed priests would talk to her and the elder man had even read the Qu’ran and could quote from it in Arabic. This was a surprise to her. She was sure that none of her teachers could do the same from his holy book. Ayesha was careful to make sure that there was no one that she became close with however. Without an innocent excuse for such contact they might assume that she had a romantic purpose and that particular entanglement was one she wished to avoid. Even though she could not guarantee that what she ate was halal, she was at least glad though that the meals were served to each person individually and that the kitchen maids washed their hands. She quickly noticed that all of the people here ate with both hands.
Ayesha started to feel a growing sense of danger. She was not sure why. Perhaps she was getting too comfortable in this alien land. Perhaps she should prepare to leave on a moment’s notice.
She soon had enough, with what she had brought, to buy herself a horse. It came with a saddle and bridle, and she was easily able to obtain large enough saddlebags. However, no one here had the means to attach her bow case and quiver of arrows to the saddle. She was annoyed about that, but in this town, while they were all ready to ride off to battle when they got there they dismounted from their horse to fight. If they had any real skirmish
ing cavalry they simply slung a quiver from their belt and used shorter and less powerful bows.
She was sure that she had seen a leatherworker’s shop around a few corners, and was soon able to find it again. Going inside she saw a young man. He was familiar to her. Mind you, by now she had seen most of the people in the town. Of course, he had sat at the front bench on the left almost every night and she was sure she had seen him at the practice areas. She smiled, not that he could see her mouth, but he could see her eyes. He leapt to his feet, very nearly dropping what he was working on. They introduced themselves to each other and then Ayesha explained what she wanted and drew things on his slate.
Stefan looked at the sketch for a little while, his face screwed up in thought.
“I could do t’at,” he finally said, “but my father be a much better craftsman t’an I am an’ he’d ne’er forgive me for not lettin’ ’im learn how t’ make somethin’ new. I’ll be a gettin’ him for you.”
He left returning shortly dragging an older version of himself and followed by a younger one—a brother probably.
“T’is be Ayesha, t’ new girl all be talkin ’bout at t’ Enemy. Ayesha, do explain to my father what you want.”
Intimations of Evil (Warriors of Vhast Book 1) Page 27